A Darker Domain. Val McDermid

the modern methods he’d brought to the job. He even had the suspicion that they were laughing at him. Take his nickname. Everybody in the building seemed to have a nickname, most of which could be construed as mildly affectionate. But not him. He’d discovered early on that he’d been dubbed the Macaroon because he shared the surname of a confectionery firm whose most famous product had become notorious because of an ancient advertising jingle whose cheerful racism would provoke rioting in the streets if it were to be aired in twenty-first-century Scotland. He blamed Karen Pirie; it was no coincidence that the nickname had surfaced after his first run-in with her. It had been typical of most of their encounters. He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but she always seemed to wrong-foot him.

      Lees still smarted at that early memory. He’d barely got his feet under the table but he’d started as he meant to go on, instigating a series of training days. Not the usual macho posturing or tedious revision of the rules of engagement, but fresh approaches to issues of modern policing. The first tranche of officers had assembled in the training suite and Lees had started his preamble, explaining how they would spend the day developing strategies for policing a multicultural society. His audience had looked mutinous and Karen Pirie had led the charge. ‘Sir, can I make a point?’

      ‘Of course, Detective Inspector Pirie.’ His smile had been genial, hiding his annoyance at being interrupted before he’d even revealed the agenda.

      ‘Well, sir, Fife’s not really what you’d call multicultural. We don’t have many people here who are not indigenous Brits. Apart from the Italians and the Poles, that is, and they’ve been here so long we’ve forgotten they’re not from here.’

      ‘So racism’s all right by you, is it, Inspector?’ Maybe not the best reply, but he’d been driven to it by the apparently Neanderthal attitude she’d expressed. Not to mention that bland, pudding face she presented whenever she said anything that might be construed as inflammatory.

      ‘Not at all, sir.’ She’d smiled, almost pityingly. ‘What I would say is that, given we have a limited training budget, it might make more sense to deal first with the sort of situations we’re more likely to encounter day to day.’

      ‘Such as? How hard to hit people when we arrest them?’

      ‘I was thinking more of strategies to deal with domestic violence. It’s a common call-out and it can easily escalate. Too many people are still dying every year because a domestic has got out of hand. And we don’t always know how to deal with it without inflaming the situation. I’d say that was my number one priority right now, sir.’

      And with that short speech, she’d cut the ground from under his feet. There was no way back for him. He could carry on with the planned training, knowing that everyone in the room was laughing at him. Or he could postpone till he could put together a programme to deal with DI Pirie’s suggestion and lose face completely. In the end, he’d told them to spend the rest of the day researching the subject of domestic violence in preparation for another training day.

      Two days later, he’d overheard himself referred to as the Macaroon. Oh yes, he knew who to blame. But as with everything she did to undermine him, there was nothing he could pin directly on her. She’d stand there, looking as shaggy, stolid and inscrutable as a Highland cow, never saying or doing anything that he could complain about. And she set the style for the rest of them, even though she was stranded on the fringes in the Cold Case Review Team where she should be able to wield no influence whatsoever. But somehow, thanks to Pirie, dealing with the detectives of all three divisions was like herding cats.

      He tried to avoid her, tried to sideline her via his operational directives. Until today, he’d thought it was working. Then the phone had rung. ‘Assistant Chief Constable Lees,’ he’d announced as he picked up the phone. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

      ‘Good morning, ACC Lees. My name is Susan Charleson. I’m personal assistant to Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant. My boss would like to talk to you. Is this a good time?’

      Lees straightened up in his chair, squaring his shoulders. Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant was notorious for three things - his wealth, his misanthropic reclusiveness, and the kidnap and murder of his daughter Catriona twenty-odd years before. Unlikely though it seemed, his PA calling the ACC Crime could only mean that there had been some sort of development in the case. ‘Yes, of course, perfect time, couldn’t be better.’ He dredged his memory for details, only half listening to the woman on the phone. Daughter and grandson kidnapped, that was it. Daughter killed in a botched ransom handover, grandson never seen again. And now it looked as if he was going to be the one to have the chance finally to solve the case. He tuned in to the woman’s voice again.

      ‘If you’ll bear with me, I’ll put you through now,’ she said.

      The hollow sound of dead air, then a dark, heavy voice said, ‘This is Brodie Maclennan Grant. And you’re the Assistant Chief Constable?’

      ‘That’s right, Sir Broderick. ACC Lees. Simon Lees.’

      ‘Are you aware of the unsolved murder of my daughter Catriona? And the kidnapping of my grandson Adam?’

      ‘Of course, naturally, there’s not an officer in the land who -’

      ‘We believe some new evidence has come to light. I’d be obliged if you’d arrange for Detective Inspector Pirie to come to the house tomorrow morning to discuss it with me.’

      Lees actually held the phone away from his face and stared at it. Was this some kind of elaborate practical joke? ‘DI Pirie? I don’t quite…I could come,’ he gabbled.

      ‘You’re a desk man. I don’t need a desk man.’ Brodie Grant’s voice was dismissive. ‘DI Pirie is a detective. I liked the way she handled that Lawson business.’

      ‘But…but it should be a more senior officer who deals with this,’ Lees protested.

      ‘Isn’t DI Pirie in charge of your Cold Case Review Team?’ Grant was beginning to sound impatient. ‘That’s senior enough for me. I don’t care about rank, I care about effectiveness. That’s why I want DI Pirie at my house at ten tomorrow morning. That should give her enough time to acquaint herself with the basic facts of the case. Good day, Mr Lees.’ The line went dead and Simon Lees was left alone with his rising blood pressure and his bad mood.

      Much as it grieved him, he had no choice but to find DI Pirie and brief her. At least he could make it sound as though sending her was his idea. But in spite of there being no appointment in the electronic diary system he had instituted for his senior detectives, she hadn’t been at her desk. It was all very well, officers doing things on their own initiative, but they had to learn to leave a record of their movements.

      He was on the point of marching back down to the CCRT squad room to find out why DI Pirie hadn’t appeared yet when a sharp rap on the door was followed without any interval by the entrance of DI Pirie. ‘Did I invite you to come in?’ Lees said, glowering across the room at her.

      ‘I thought it was urgent, sir.’ She kept walking and sat down in the visitor’s chair across the desk from him. ‘DS Parhatka gave me the impression that whatever it is you wanted me for, it couldn’t wait.’

      What an advert for the service, he thought crossly. Shaggy brown hair flopping into her eyes, the merest smudge of make-up, teeth that really could have done with some serious orthodontics. He supposed she was probably a lesbian, given her penchant for trouser suits that really were a mistake given the breadth of her hips. Not that he had anything against lesbians, his internal governor reminded him. He just thought it gave people the wrong impression about today’s police service. ‘Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant called me earlier this morning,’ he said. The only sign of interest was a slight parting of her lips. ‘You know who Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant is, I take it?’

      Karen looked puzzled by the question. She leaned back in her seat and recited, ‘Third richest man in Scotland, owns half of the profitable parts of the Highlands. Made his money building roads and houses and running the transport systems that serve them. Owns a Hebridean island but lives mostly in Rotheswell